Disassociating in Central Park

By Alessandra DeAngelis

In terms of comfort,

It was just shy of “brisk” spring,

And I had goosebumps.

But it didn’t matter,

Not really, since the sun

Was a cascade

That trickled through tree

Branches; soaking through clothes and

Going up noses.

I let it fill me,

Clogging the back of my throat

Like cotton, bad news.

White light traveling,

Bursting my veins, splitting through

Bone, sinew, and skin,

Until there’s nothing.

No corpse, ash, or fine vapor,

Just absence of what was.